“Oh no.  You’re most practical, only—­perhaps—­I don’t know, perhaps you do try to do rather impossible things, Mr. Vigil”

“Bilcock Buildings!”

There was a minute’s silence.  Then Mrs. Shortman at her bureau beginning to dictate, the typewriter started clicking.

Gregory, who had opened a letter, was seated with his head in his hands.  The voice ceased, the typewriter ceased, but Gregory did not stir.  Both women, turning a little in their seats, glanced at him.  Their eyes caught each other’s and they looked away at once.  A few seconds later they were looking at him again.  Still Gregory did not stir.  An anxious appeal began to creep into the women’s eyes.

“Mr. Vigil,” said Mrs. Shortman at last, “Mr. Vigil, do you think—–­”

Gregory raised his face; it was flushed to the roots of his hair.

“Read that, Mrs. Shortman.”

Handing her a pale grey letter stamped with an eagle and the motto ‘Strenuus aureaque penna’ he rose and paced the room.  And as with his long, light stride he was passing to and fro, the woman at the bureau conned steadily the writing, the girl at the typewriter sat motionless with a red and jealous face.

Mrs. Shortman folded the letter, placed it on the top of the bureau, and said without raising her eyes—­

“Of course, it is very sad for the poor little girl; but surely, Mr. Vigil, it must always be, so as to check, to check——­”

Gregory stopped, and his shining eyes disconcerted her; they seemed to her unpractical.  Sharply lifting her voice, she went on: 

“If there were no disgrace, there would be no way of stopping it.  I know the country better than you do, Mr. Vigil.”

Gregory put his hands to his ears.

“We must find a place for her at once.”

The window was fully open, so that he could not open it any more, and he stood there as though looking for that place in the sky.  And the sky he looked at was very blue, and large white birds of cloud were flying over it.

He turned from the window, and opened another letter.

                              “Lincoln’sinn fields,
                                   “May 24, 1892. 
“My dear vigil,

“I gathered from your ward when I saw her yesterday that she has not told you of what, I fear, will give you much pain.  I asked her point-blank whether she wished the matter kept from you, and her answer was, ’He had better know—­only I’m sorry for him.’  In sum it is this:  Bellow has either got wind of our watching him, or someone must have put him up to it; he has anticipated us and brought a suit against your ward, joining George Pendyce in the cause.  George brought the citation to me.  If necessary he’s prepared to swear there’s nothing in it.  He takes, in fact, the usual standpoint of the ‘man of honour.’

“I went at once to see your ward.  She admitted that the charge is true.  I asked her if she wished the suit defended, and a counter-suit brought against her husband.  Her answer to that was:  ‘I absolutely don’t care.’  I got nothing from her but this, and, though it sounds odd, I believe it to be true.  She appears to be in a reckless mood, and to have no particular ill-will against her husband.